


finding home

by kkamagui



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkamagui/pseuds/kkamagui
Summary: A voice inside of him does whisper, full of relief and longing,I’m home.





	finding home

**Author's Note:**

> rushed smth to piece tgt my own thoughts on the shb story  
> wol is a drk main, male keeper of moon miqote
> 
> major shadowbringers spoilers ahead; read at ur own discretion

* * *

He looks out into the night, the sky a tapestry of glimmering stars and blue-indigo darkness. Since the fall of the first Lightwarden some time ago, many of the people within the Crystarium have taken to sleeping outside in tents, staring up at the sights that had all but been forgotten. Hak watches a moment more over the bobbing sea of torches and excited chatter, then retreats into the chambers and shuts the windows. Draws the curtains tight with tighter fists. He stands still for a few breaths, shoulders tight, then releases a sigh as he lets go.

Physically his energy is abound, wanting more thrill, more of the fight. He still feels as though he should be killing _something._ There has been many a restless night where he has gone to train in the strange Lakeland woods or taken patrol duties in lieu of sleeping. Now, he swallows the fierce desire to go outside and closes his eyes.

In his mind’s eye he sees a three-headed beast, a pool of venom, a gloved hand pulling life from the void. A forest of old, reaching far and further; a deep, deep ruins sunken into watery abyss; a mesmerizing, burning stare of an owl.

He is so tired.

Ardbert has taken to sitting idly at the dining table during slower times, scrutinizing Hak’s every move. It does not bother Hak as much as he initially thought it would. In a way, he knows, they are from the selfsame image. A simple mirror-specter is nothing compared to the multitude of curious gazes of admirers, believers, idolizers. He glances over at his armor and weapon in the corner, cleaned and polished to gleaming blackness.

“You have done well, today,” Ardbert says softly, breaking the silence.

“Is that so,” Hak says. He strides over to the lone candle lighting the room, then lifts it to share the flame with its brethren. The ring of twelve candles flickers, complete, offering up a warmer, golden light. He does not wish to look outside—as much as the moon calls to him, her light is simply to bright and harsh for his eyes at present.

For another few moments, Ardbert regards him coolly. He is seated comfortably in a chair, legs sprawled wide, arms hanging over the chair’s back. The longer Hak has been in the First, the more amiable and relaxed he has become. Hak takes the seat across from him, adopting the same pose and dropping his head onto his arms. It is bizarre; how long ago had they just been at each other’s throats, all to save their own worlds? How long ago had they been but bitter, bitter enemies?

“You’re not sleeping with the windows open?”

“Cannot imagine how I will sleep,” Hak says, knowing that his excuse is unoriginal and flimsy, “with this commotion outside.”

Ardbert snorts, but not unkindly. It is still fascinating that he does not simply sink right through the material chair. “I’ve seen you slumbering through much worse, dear Warrior of Darkness. If there is aught bothering you,” he gestures oddly at his ghostly self, then taps at his temple, “I can only guess as to what may go on in that sullen head of yours.”

It is strange, sometimes, how Ardbert can pick up on the emotions that Hak has trained so hard to dullen, to hide. His first instinct had been to try and close himself off further, but looking into a mirror offers little protection from oneself. In the end, it is only themselves who know each other best; the thoughts, the doubts, the worries and aches that plague them the longer the world bears down upon their shoulders.

Now and again, Hak will wonder if Minfilia had been trying to leave behind more than a simple failsafe for the First. Wonders if it had been part of her intention to leave a friend to guide him through these trying times. The relief and familiarity of seeing and working with the Scions is blessing in itself, yes—but when the sun falls west and the air grows cold and lonely and he is dismissed from his daily duties—what then?

Hak remembers that the Scions are rooted into this world, whether it continues to turn or rots to dust. He remembers that there is not yet a way for them to return. That there may not be a way. They are simultaneously here and _not_ , and he is all the more desperate because of it.

_You would work to the death here_ _and have me return alone,_ he thinks more often than he would like, watching the Scions plot together and smile at him. _Am I to leave everyone again? You would entrust it all to me once more?_

“It was a tiring fight,” he says, knowing that Ardbert can see right through him. With each Lightwarden consumed, the world has grown louder, brighter. Hak knows that holding so much aether within him is nothing short of a miracle. He often avoids looking at Y’shtola, who regards him with an ever critical, appraising look. She worries over his literal state of being, and he is aware of her concerns and shares them to some extent.

But if not the Warrior of Darkness, then who?

Ardbert keeps his voice low and understanding. “We have but one more to go, my friend.”

Hak hears footsteps, or imagines them, as Ardbert moves closer. He peeks up from his arms to watch the glow of Ardbert’s arm as he settles a hand on Hak’s shoulder. No words need be exchanged. Again, Hak drops his head onto his arms and sighs. His ears twitch at the sound of wax dripping onto the table, but he moves no more.

“One more,” Hak promises, feeling as though all the fight in him has been sucked out. Ardbert seems to fidget in place, unsure how long keeping contact would be appropriate. Thankfully, he keeps his hand solidly there, more a physical reassurance Hak has received from anyone else.

“And following it will be a well-deserved rest,” Ardbert assures him. Hak is glad for it—glad he had not said something else. _We’re counting on you, hero. It’s all up to you, hero. We believe in you, hero_.

Hak chuckles, a bit weary. “I think I will sleep early tonight.”

“Well,” says Ardbert. His voice recedes as though he is walking away. “I am here. Should you need the strength, you need but call for me.”

* * *

He climbs the sky for what does not feel like the first time. There is something nostalgic in looking out across the world below, shrunken dots and lines across a sandy, watery plain. Light refracts off the swelling waves in the distance, giving off the appearance of stars in a tumultuous sea. For a moment Hak believes that it reminds him of Limsa Lominsa with all her frothing waves and white stone. Even so, it is not the same. He cannot place where he has seen such a sight before, does not understand why his chest aches something fierce for this wondrous, breath-taking view.

Here, he can almost see the end of the world.

Emet-Selch approaches him, steps heavy and plodding, his shoulders hunched. Hak has watched the Ascian on occasion, more curious than apprehensive. He seems to disregard many things, have little a care for anything but perhaps stretches of slumber that are never, ever long nor deep enough. He oft looks as though he would rather be off dreaming.

Perhaps the Ascian tries to hide it, or perhaps he does not, but his gaze is always somewhat sad when he looks at Hak. Sharp in certain instances, as though he can hear the roil of discontent and madness within Hak’s innermost thoughts. Hak knows his purpose here—the same as any other plane he has walked. He is to be the pathfinder, the ender of chaos, savior of calamities thirteen times over.

In his weaker moments, he feels nothing but an all-consuming bitterness. And in the quiet steal of night, Fray’s voice returns.

“Such crude inventions,” says Emet-Selch with no small amount of disgust, looking over at the Ladder and its metal mechanisms. No doubt he finds it wanting, as he is wont to do. “The things these people come up with to make up for their shortcomings, hm. It is almost inspiring.”

Despite his unfriendly tone, it is not directed at Hak. Rather, Emet-Selch speaks as though he and Hak alone are separated from the rabble. It is in these moments that the Warrior of Darkness questions the exact motive behind the Ascian’s allegedly benign intentions. The sudden change of heart has been a hot debate between the Scions ever since he had stepped foot into the Crystarium, all smug theatrics and weary eyes. Hak, well. He is curious, and has no dire enmity against this lonely god. There must be a reason; after all, Nabriales, Igeyorhm, Lahabrea—no matter how sinister, they all had their reasons, too.

  
“We cannot all disappear and reappear where we would like at will,” Hak rolls his eyes, leaning back into their shared shade. “The Ladder’s architecture is a simple solution.”

Emet-Selch sniffs. “I could do better.”

“You’ve lived longer,” Hak says, meaning that _of course_ the Ascian would know more, but the intent of his words is perceived differently.

“I have,” Emet-Selch says quietly.

Hak cannot imagine such an ancient being shedding tears nor mourning, but only because he has not thought of it. Surely the Ascians had all been close to each other; how must it feel, he wonders, to look upon the slayer of a dear friend? Out of all of them that he has encountered, Emet-Selch has displayed such a bizarre range of emotion and topics of speech that Hak feels as though he is talking with someone less ominous and more... companion-like. Someone so familiar.

He watches Emet-Selch lumber away, slow and dramatic. Once more, Hak’s gaze is drawn to the far, opposite horizon. Away from Mt. Gulg and its haloed peak, the distant seas are a cold, peaceful blue.

* * *

_You disappoint me_ , a voice echoes. It is familiar yet doomful. In a vast sea of darkness is a web of red masks, each more intricate than the last. They are watching, hollow-eyed, watching as he breaks them one after another. He hangs in the middle of the web, turning and turning. There is no end to the red grins and red frowns. No end to the empty eyes.

In his dreams-turned-nightmares (or maybe nightmares-turned-dreams), there is a heavy weight of a mask over his face. Hak lifts his hand to try and take it off, and his fingers come away empty and bloody. The mask seems to crush his skull, hold wide his eyes, and he sees calamities and fire. His body is naught but a shadow, blending into the black of the yawning void.

He wakes.

In the days after slaying Vauthry, the weariness of being alive rears its head again, more demanding than ever. When he is on the move, putting on the performance of normalcy, doing all the deeds that being a hero entails… It is only then that Hak can almost ignore the shrill ringing in his ears. Conversing with the Scions is always as though he is hearing them speak underwater. Looking up at the sky yields naught but a view tinged with overwhelming, blinding light—

— _all because of you, all because of YOU_.

He feels now and often, inadequate. The voice inside his head is loud and louder, another wail over the static of his thoughts.

It is unbearable when he rests at night, windows shut and curtains drawn tight. Ardbert will watch him with understanding eyes, wanting to talk but at a loss for what to say. Much better than the sadness and pity that the others may direct at him.

For the first time in a long while, Hak calls for help.

And for him, Feo-Ul, beautiful Feo-Ul who loves their little sapling so, gives their first mandate as King.

They descend.

Above and around him is an endless, endless deep blue. The sea cradles its peoples and creatures in a gentle embrace. Everything is so blessedly quiet and serene, a world untouched by the outside skies and their harsh glare. Within the depths of the sea, wandering over the sands and amidst colossal marine plants, Hak very nearly feels at _home_.

He spends a good portion of his time simply traversing the sands, his steps energized for the first time in what must be days. The odd towering building, the deepness of the chasms that must surely hold so many secrets, and—the awe.

The sight is so alien and unlike the cities back on the Source, and yet.

A voice inside of him does whisper, full of relief and longing, _I’m home_.

The other Scions disperse after speaking to the first Amaurotine on the ground floor. There is so much empty space, all reminders that this is all just a fabrication, a glimpse of the true architecture of the past. The voices of the Amaurotines ring as strangely as a long-forgotten language, somber and musical. He almost forgets that he is here for his true end purpose from all the marvels surrounding him.

It is only when he sits to wait that the Light overwhelms all else, flooding his senses and filling his head with an aching urge until—

A soft voice echoes.

“May I?” says an Amaurotine. In Hak’s shock, the Light retreats once more to be held at bay, but only just.

Hythlodaeus, they call themselves. A long lost and close friend of Emet-Selch. Hak thinks of how long it must have been since Hythlodaeus had lived, how long it has been since Emet-Selch must have conversed with them, and yet he remembers. It is here that he realizes most what drives the Ascian to his own bitter motives—the flimsy, knowing echo of his past friend reveals more than anything else.

A want for the familiar—a yearning for home.

Hak says nothing as Emet-Selch rages, his very being quavering with the sort of resentment and sorrow that could only emerge after a thousand, thousand lifetimes alone. The flames consume him and flicker with the horrors that Hak might have seen in his dreams. Brilliant, brilliant Amaurot falls around them, crumbling beneath the weight of its people’s fears. In watching it burn, Hak feels as though his own home is being torn apart and shakes it off as they cleave through the waves and waves of horrendous beasts.

When all has grown still and Hak sees only the end of the world all around him, Emet-Selch appears. He looks tired, the dark of the broken world around them only serving to sharpen the shadows beneath his eyes. Emet-Selch speaks, oh does he speak, words taken with a madness that Hak now knows stems from a marvelous act.

“Weary wanderer—you’ve no fight left to fight, no life left to live!”

_Ye_ s, Hak thinks as the Ascian watches him with a cold stare, shuddering against the strain of light fighting to break free _. Poor, lonely Emet-Selch; a weary wanderer of his lost world_.

_You could save him_ , the Light whispers tantalizingly. _You could save him from his misery. Bring back his people and home. Your people and home_.

When the world has gone white, Ardbert asks Hak past the throes of agony, his expression gentle, “Could you do it?”

“What,” Hak laughs, a little breathless and more than a little exhausted, “all by myself?” By the Twelve, he really wants to take a nap. A part of him still does not want to—is so, so tired—but he reaches out a hand anyways, feels the warmth of a selfsame soul, sundered into thirteen.

And after a thousand, thousand lifetimes trying to find home, Hades greets, for the last time, a new old friend.

* * *


End file.
